


Chiaroscuro

by Kisatsel



Category: Dune Series - Frank Herbert
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slavery, prescience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel
Summary: Much has been made of the fact that in the second year of his rule as Emperor, Paul Muad’Dib took a male slave-concubine into his household.
Relationships: Paul Atreides/Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/gifts).



> Thank you for your wonderful prompts, and I hope you like this!
> 
> Many thanks to nobirdstofly and silklace for beta-reading and talking this fic through with me!

_Much has been made of the fact that in the second year of his rule as Emperor, Paul Muad’Dib took a male slave-concubine into his household. Some have speculated that this man was a former slave-gladiator who had escaped after the fall of House Harkonnen and been taken in by Muad’Dib, who found many loyal supporters among those whose lives had been ravaged by the Harkonnen legacy of cruelty. Others have claimed that Muad’Dib was captivated by the slave’s handsomeness and vigour to such an extent that he broke his own vow that the Fremen woman Chani would be his only concubine._

_The tawdry speculation that Muad’Dib enjoyed sexual liaisons with men does not merit attention. As Emperor, just as during his time on Arrakis, Muad’Dib was unafraid to upend convention, knowing that he wielded absolute power and did not need to earn the Landsraad’s approval. His talent was in using people according to their potential, that is, knowing how to rule. He was not so foolish as to think that the only use for a concubine was sex._

—’Muad’Dib, the Man’ by the Princess Irulan

Paul was alone in his small study, tucked away among a winding maze of corridors in a corner of the sprawling, opulent, fortified Imperial Palace that was now his. They had not yet finished building his Keep on Arrakis, and the vast machinery that surrounded the emperor lived in this building. Much of it he had discarded already, other parts he had reshaped for his own purposes, but though it itched under his skin, he could not afford to rebuild his bureaucracy from scratch. 

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Irulan. She entered at his call, with the air of serene competence that she wore like armor. 

“Husband,” she said. “You’ve been gifted a new shipment of concubines.”

Paul looked up from his reports and took a sip from his flask of spiced coffee. The effects of his addiction were clearer off-planet, and any planet other than Arrakis was off-planet now, and always would be. The spice drug acted on his system immediately, sharpening his awareness, and he opened his mind to the wider vision, the branching pathways of the near and distant future. 

He saw five figures dressed in clinging robes, waiting in a holding room of his palace. The shackles were merely for show, but the whip in the handler’s fist was real. Four women and one man. If he rejected them, they would return on the same ship that had brought them. 

“Another gift from House Serriah, m’lord,” Irulan said. “They hope that by sending you gifts you cannot accept, you will appear ungracious.” 

This was self-evident, so Paul didn’t reply. A branch of the future had flashed behind his eyes and caught his attention: a vision of himself, slumped on the floor with a scratch on his arm, a bead of blood welling up and poison spreading through his veins. There had been many assassination attempts and would be many more, a constant dance of deception and evasion, but this death was familiar. It was overdue. 

“They’ve sent a man,” he said. 

“Yes, sire.” Irulan didn’t ask how he knew this. 

“I will see him. Refuse the others.”

“They passed our security checks, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Take him to the opal viewing gallery,” Paul said. “Have him stripped, searched, and dressed in something suitable. And inform the slavemaster that this man is dangerous.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Irulan said smoothly. Paul suppressed his irritation. Irulan had a lifetime’s training in navigating the whims of one impatient, powerful man. She was doing what she knew. He ought to be grateful that she had no intention of being honest with him when he had so little to give her in return. “Shall I tell the Lady Chani of this?” Irulan said. 

Paul tapped his fingers on the wood of his desk. “Yes,” he said. “Submit the usual reports. I’ll speak to Chani personally as soon as she returns from Corrino.”

“As you wish, m’lord.”

* * *

The opal viewing gallery was an intimate space, intended to convey obscene and oppressive wealth. The walls were studded from floor to ceiling with stones mined on Hagai. Paul disliked it, but it was very beautiful. The subtly shifting mosaic of pale gray, blue, and black, with flashes of brighter color, reminded him of the ocean. The room had a slate gray floor and a series of shallow steps leading up to a throne, on which he sat to await his slavemaster and the slave he knew to be Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. The one who went missing amid the tumult and confusion on the day Paul had seized the throne. Alive, after all, and fool enough to show his face. 

Feyd-Rautha, when they brought him in, was dressed more like a gladiator than a concubine: naked from the waist up, wearing only tight black leggings. He had full lips that affected a sullen pout. In Paul’s earlier visions, Feyd had had short, tightly-curling dark hair, but now his hair had been relaxed and left to grow until it reached his shoulders, falling in waves that framed his face. He was intended to be alluring. Paul assumed that the hint of defiance in his eyes was part of his appeal. 

“The slave Lyris,” Paul’s slavemaster said. “A gift for his majesty.” 

Paul frowned. Feyd-Rautha’s hands were bound in front of him with yerahi rope, which lay soft and supple against the skin but stiffened and constricted when stretched. His skin was smooth and unblemished, no bruises or whip scars.

The slavemaster poked Feyd-Rautha in the small of the back until he approached the base of the steps and knelt.

“I thought this was a concubine,” Paul remarked. “Have you brought me a fighter-slave instead?”

His slavemaster made a deep bow. “Sire, the concubine robes were not suitable for a male. We regret the oversight. Clothing will be found.”

Paul nodded. He felt a faint amusement at the idea of the slavemaster searching through racks of gauzy fabrics and debating whether to send this man to him in them. “Has he been searched?”

“Yes. No weapons found. He’s immobilized, and poses no threat.”

“Then you may leave us.”

It did not mean, of course, that they would be alone. Paul had two bodyguards, both Fremen of Sietch Tabr, who followed after him like shadows from dawn till dusk. They stood behind his throne now, and if they longed to be killing in his name in the spreading wild rush of Paul’s jihad instead of stalking the corridors of the imperial palace, they didn’t say so. 

Feyd-Rautha lifted his chin and met Paul’s eyes. 

“Hello, cousin,” Paul said, looking down at the man kneeling before him. The last Harkonnen alive. “They do say that _kanly_ will have its due sooner or later.”

There was a subtle shifting of bodies behind him, and Paul put his hand behind his back to make the hand signal that meant _hold_. 

Feyd-Rautha grinned at him, fearless. Nobody looked at Paul like that. “They call me Lyris now,” he said. 

Paul rested his chin on his hand and examined Feyd-Rautha. “Who sent you?” 

“House Serriah,” Feyd answered. 

“Full truth not half-truths, please, cousin,” Paul said. “You’re bound right now, unshielded, and I have a crysknife at my belt. Once I draw it, I will not sheath it unblooded.” Paul rose to his feet and descended the steps slowly. He felt present, vividly alive and caught in this moment of danger. He had not anticipated Feyd-Rautha’s arrival here today. Paul’s enemies did not dare to move against him publicly, and they certainly did not present themselves to him, neatly tied up and awaiting his judgement. 

“I’m a pleasure slave,” Feyd said slyly. “That’s not a lie, is it? If it pleases you to slit my worthless throat, then do it now. Or toss me a knife, untie me, and face me like a man, Atreides.”

“ _Hold_ ,” Paul said to his guards. To speak to him like this was to ask for death! He sat down on the steps, one leg crossed over the other, and looked Feyd over. It was masked behind bravado, but he saw that Feyd was afraid. It showed in the clench of his jaw, the sweat on his brow. 

Now that he was emperor, the paths that Paul saw were dizzying in their number and shifting complexity. His every word and action had the power to change the course of the known universe, and the way forward had grown tangled, drenched in blood, driven by the terrible purpose he had been unable to avert. The name Muad’Dib meant death on planets Paul had never set foot on. He searched among the paths for chinks of light, one eye on the present and one on the yet to come. Looking at Feyd, he saw one. 

He saw what he must do and something in him recoiled in shock, though he gave no sign of it. 

“Nothing to say?” Feyd said. 

Paul took a steadying breath. “The Bene Gesserit miscalculated when they decided to throw you away on a suicide mission, Feyd,” he said.

Feyd smiled. “You haven’t killed me yet.” 

“What did they do with you?” Paul had seen and heard enough of Feyd to know him now, and he put a hint of command in his voice, a lower register. 

“They shielded me,” Feyd said. “Taught me their witch tricks so you can’t use the Voice on me.”

Paul considered him. “They must truly own you to make you agree to be a slave for another man,” he said. “I heard that the Harkonnen slave pits were a living hell.”

“They knew what I wanted.” Feyd bared his teeth. “You think I’m afraid of what you can do to me. If you really see the future, like they say, you’ll see what I’m willing to do.”

“I see the now,” Paul said. “Do you know what that means? I know about the trick you’re hiding, the poison you carry. The needle implanted under the skin of your little finger, undetectable until you say the word that makes it break through the skin and pierce mine. Shall I send you back with your hand cut off?”

It was a clever device, made of a barbed thorn that would not be detected by any search or snooper scan. The Bene Gesserit were desperate enough to pay people in unsavory corners of the galaxy in their efforts to wrest control back from the emperor. 

Feyd’s fists clenched and the rope tightened around his wrists. 

“Don’t worry,” Paul said, standing and taking another step down. He put a hand on Feyd’s shoulder. “Blunt cruelty was never my way.”

He beckoned his guards, who were watching Feyd with the Fremen air of casually suppressed violence, and the particular quality of hatred that they reserved for Harkonnens.

“Beyek,” Paul said, “summon Yalbeck and tell him I’ll wait for him in the emergency med-ward in my quarters. Hasme, you will take the slave there, and I will follow. Take the lower staircase.” 

Thiswas their code phrase which meant that it should be done urgently and with the utmost secrecy. Paul strode past Feyd without turning his head. 

* * *

Paul’s chief physician Victor Yalbeck was a stooped and careful little man with the red diamond tattoo on his forehead marking him a Suk doctor. His hands, which were trained to do the most advanced and experimental surgeries allowed under the Great Convention, moved at all times with precision. He had hurried in to find Paul and Feyd watching each other in silence. 

Yalbeck tapped his chin with his finger as he looked at Feyd, who was strapped to a medical stretcher and bore this attention with an attitude of silent disinterest. 

“You must have the barb removed with no risk to yourself or the patient,” Paul said to the doctor. “Have the poison and mechanism analyzed. Then contact Hynes and let him know that a slave from House Serriah has been unwittingly prepared with an assassination device intended to kill the emperor. The slave did not know of it. Serriah will investigate this treason and report their findings publicly in full to the Landsraad. When you are certain the threat has been disabled, let me know. I need to question the slave further.”

Hynes was one of Paul’s senior lieutenants, a taciturn man who had little skill with a knife but proved useful in navigating the endless politics of the Houses Major. 

“Whoever this is, they grow too bold, your majesty,” Yalbeck said. 

Paul took Yalbeck by the arm and drew him aside. “This must be done quietly,” he said. “I’d like to know more without rousing alarm.” 

“Understood, your majesty.”

* * *

Paul was busy for the rest of the day, as he was every day. With Chani away for the opening of an enormous new temple on Corrino in Muad’Dib’s name, intended as a site of pilgrimage that would discourage religious travel to Arrakis, Jessica still on Caladan, and Alia busy with her own work which she delighted in keeping secret from him, there was nobody to tell him to take a break. 

And nobody to tell him it was a bad idea to follow this vision through to its conclusion. If Chani were here, she would have stepped in front of him and killed Feyd herself. Then she would have turned to him and said, “Now, beloved, it is done.”

But he was losing faith in the idea that a thing could ever be finished. 

In his mind, he’d seen Feyd lying in a bed, swathed in silks in the concubine quarters, and Paul had been there too, and he’d felt a twist of vicious satisfaction at the flush spreading on Feyd’s skin and the panting of his mouth, a creature brought to heel. 

And further down the path, he saw Feyd as a dangerous tool, a blade with no shearing-guard that cut its owner, but that could be turned on the Bene Gesserit themselves, their obscene breeding program and their schemes to dethrone him and assert their own version of order. 

Paul was true to Chani, and they were whole and good together, and she had not lost the wisdom of the desert. 

He could bed Feyd, but he knew he would not. If he couldn’t maintain even this most basic discipline, he was worth nothing. Still, he knew he must find a way to turn Feyd’s allegiance or force his obedience. 

* * *

After sunset, he dismissed his guards and went to Feyd in the room the slavemaster had found. The concubine quarters of the palace lay empty, as they had since Paul moved in and the slaves were freed and set to other work in his employ or shipped out. 

“Feyd-Rautha,” he said, entering the chamber. It was richly furnished in the traditional style of Zanovar, with delicately woven lattice furniture of imported wood, strewn with cushions and cloths. Feyd was lounging on the bed, much as if he were still the na-Baron, expecting others to serve him. 

“Paul Atreides,” Feyd greeted him.

“That was my name.” Paul leaned against the bedpost. “Now they call me Muad’Dib. Or sire, to you. Either will do.”

“But we’re cousins,” Feyd said. “There’s no need for such formality between family.” 

Paul cast his eyes over Feyd. The slaveholder had provided him with a short tunic that barely covered Feyd’s thighs, revealing his slim legs, the muscles trained with the same prana-bindu exercises that Paul’s mother had taught him. 

What had happened to Feyd, Paul wondered, that he wore a slave’s clothes so easily, without shame? The intelligence he’d read on Feyd portrayed him as a brash, ambitious youth, a fighter in the ring, cunning yet no match for the uncle. 

But House Harkonnen had fallen far. Paul had transformed himself once too, with his father dead from Harkonnen treachery and House Atreides believed to be defeated. 

“Come on, Atreides,” Feyd said. “Isn’t this your moment of triumph? The last remaining Harkonnen. Why do you linger? Why did you lie and tell your doctor I was innocent?”

Paul shook his head, thinking. “Not the last,” he said. His prescient awareness stretched across past and present and he delved through it to find what he needed: the girl. A pretender, a last hope for his enemies. “Your daughter. Lady Margot Fenring bore her.”

Feyd tensed and sat up, abandoning his affected easy sprawl. “You know about her?”

“More than you do,” Paul said, feeling a reluctant, distant pang of pity for the man in front of him. “If you want her to survive, you’ll need to take her from her Bene Gesserit training and flee to the edges of the galaxy. Maybe our dear departed Emperor Shaddam would like the company.” 

“It’s too late for that,” Feyd said. “I’d like to meet you in the arena, cousin, but that was in another life.” He stretched, showing off his body. 

With Chani, desire was a living thing between them, a vine that bound them together. Here, in a bedroom alone with Feyd, though his blood was singing with the brutal physicality of it, it was nothing more than data to be understood and put aside. Feyd-Rautha really thought him weak enough to take another man, his enemy, just to feel the thrill of conquest. Feyd thought Paul could be used in this way. 

“What would you do with me?” Paul said. “If our positions were reversed.”

“What an interesting question,” Feyd said. “Our uncle, may he rot where he lies, never dealt in pointless hypotheticals. There’s only power: those who wield it, those who are too afraid to, and those who are subject to it.” He looked up at Paul, his head pillowed on his arms. “I know you’re not afraid.”

“You avoid my question.”

“I’d kill you,” Feyd said impatiently.

“Do you want that?” 

“To kill you? I came here, didn’t I?”

“No,” Paul said. “Would you like to die by my hand?”

Feyd’s mouth twisted, and he drew himself up until he was seated. Paul sat too, putting them on a level. “What is the Harkonnen name?” Feyd demanded. “What can a Harkonnen be, now that your new prophets are spreading your word across every planet? A hopeless pretender to the throne, a wasted life.” 

“Be nothing,” Paul said. “Like everyone else. A minor noble scrabbling for influence, an ordinary life, signifying nothing except to the few who’ll remember you when you’re gone. It’s more than you deserve. Why didn’t you take it?” 

“And how would I?” Feyd said. “When I woke up, my family dead, an Atreides on the throne, and the Bene Gesserit claws sunk so deep in my skin that the only way to leave was to wait for their cursed suicide mission?”

“And if I send you back?” Paul said.

Feyd blanched, swallowing. “But you want it,” he said lowly. “They read you right. I see it in your face. No wonder Muad’Dib soured on his Bene Gesserit wife. But he’s a man, after all, like everyone else.” He laid his hand on Paul’s thigh. His hand was warm, the contact shockingly ordinary. Paul watched carefully and did not move as Feyd rose up on his knees and leaned in closer towards him.

His reflexes kicked in as Feyd sprung at him, looking to push him onto the floor. Paul lashed out, propelling Feyd back onto the bed, and they grappled, Feyd using knees and feet. Feyd’s training was good. It was better than this attack, which was nothing more than another provocation. He pinned Feyd against the mattress, one hand holding his wrists and one on his throat, a knee in his stomach. Feyd stopped fighting back and laughed savagely.

“I won’t do this,” Paul said. “But I have another use for you, Feyd. Would you like to hear it?”

“As his majesty commands,” Feyd said, dripping with sarcasm. He’d let his head loll back against the sheets. 

“You’ll join my household,” Paul said steadily, “as the slave Lyris. You’ll communicate this to the Bene Gesserit who sent you. You’ll stay in contact. And you’ll report to me on their schemes and attempts at treason.”

Feyd stared up at Paul with his dark eyes, like the old Baron Harkonnen’s, glittering with plans. 

“Why do you need it?” he said. “You see everywhere. Why do you need my eyes?” He swallowed, and Paul felt Feyd’s throat move under his hand. 

“Some places are shadowed.” Paul released Feyd and sat back, weary at himself and the prescient vision which seemed to grip him tighter each day. “Some flicker and change. Some I see so vividly they might be a memory of yesterday, and never come to pass.” He traced a finger over Feyd’s sweat-dotted forehead and down his cheek, passing by his mouth without touching his full lips. “I’ve seen you kill me many times. But you never will.”

“So you say,” Feyd said. “And in the future, do I try again?”

Sometimes, Paul didn’t need to look into the future. Instead, he saw himself shaping it, saw the shadows clear and the road roll out under his feet. 

“No,” he said softly. “I remove the thorn. They call you Lyris, Muad’Dib’s gladiator-concubine. There’ll be women if you want. And, if you’re clever, and you do what I tell you, you survive.”

Feyd held himself still and impassive under Paul’s touch. 

Paul rose from the bed and brushed a hand over his hair, straightened his military uniform. 

“Feyd,” he said as he reached the door, turning back over his shoulder. Feyd watched him curiously, lying on the bed where Paul had pinned him. 

“Maybe it’s wiser to be a slave than a killer,” Paul said. “You’ve learned that better than me.”

__


End file.
